Ma Jian - Red Dust

A banner across the road on the left reads A SON WHO JOINS THE ARMY BRINGS PRIDE TO THE FAMILY. A SON WHO ESCAPES TO HONG KONG BRINGS SHAME TO EVERYONE.

When a son joins the army in the north, it is an occasion for celebration, but no one wants their son to be a soldier here. In the south, if a young man has not escaped to Hong Kong and made his fortune, his mother will curse the day he was born.

The entrance to the restaurant is lined with cages of snakes, cats and tortoises. A man takes a skinned dog off his bicycle rack and delivers it to the kitchen. The fish and prawns jumping in enamel basins splash water onto the stone floor and remind one the sea is not far away.

There really is nothing Guangzhou people do not eat. Tonight I have tasted snake, cat, turtle and raw fish. Lingling has invited the manager of a printing factory and a photographer from Guangzhou Press who owns a Hasselblad. They have agreed to take our publicity photographs and print our posters and tickets for free because they are friends of Wang Shu. Lingling promises to pay them when the exhibition starts making money. As they chat away in Cantonese, I sample the dog dumplings and deep fried dove. Lingling asks if I have decided on a model yet, and suddenly I wonder what to do if Chun Mei decides to back out. I had planned to dress her up as a Yunnanese girl and plaster her photograph across the city.

The next morning, Da Xian, Chun Mei and I scour the shops along Zhongshan Road for film, candles, coloured paper, paints and pens. Chun Mei’s unsmiling mouth looks like a man’s.

Cantonese pop booms from every radio, and each television is tuned to the same Hong Kong soap opera. The noise on the street is so loud we have to retreat into shops before we can hear ourselves talk. The portable electric fans that stand on the counters churn smells of roast duck through the air. The advertising hoardings on the streets and the blonde mannequins in the shop windows give the city an air of opulence and sophistication that is worlds away from the north. Streaming past me are businessmen with leather briefcases and baggy trousers, women with dainty handbags and heavy make-up, and workers in vests and shorts. Housewives carrying plastic bags weave through the bicycles and motorbikes. Southerners move with fluid steps, their bodies are light and supple. Posters of Hong Kong pop stars cover the walls of every grocery store, and make the Marx, Lenin and Mao posters in the Xinhua Bookshop look like museum pieces in comparison. I browse through the magazine section, then buy some pens and paper, as well as Updike’s Rabbit, Run and Joyce’s Dubliners which I will read and then send to Wang Ping.

We turn into a narrow lane of small brick houses. Smells of fish and incense pour from open windows, the rooms inside are black. Pink and yellow underwear hang from bamboo poles above. I go to a public phone, give Lingling a call then wait for her to call me back. The heat is unbearable. A table on the pavement is set with cups of tea. We each buy one, but Da Xian and I have to spit ours out. Chun Mei tells us this is called ‘bitter tea’. Two old men on plastic stools stare at us then gaze at the line of shops behind. A furniture store sells goldfish in its doorway. A man who cuts keys, prints name cards and mends watches has set up business in the entrance of a shop that sells hats, cosmetics and Hong Kong cigarette lighters. Outside the radio repair shop, a tethered cat claws at a plastic bag as it tries to break free.

Life is easy here. Women stroll to the public toilets in their nighties and stop to buy rice on their way back. Children wash their feet and sandals while they clean vegetables under the street tap. A man on a motorbike pulls up beside a fruit stall and leans over to select his tangerines.

In the afternoon, Chun Mei appears to take a turn for the worse. She is wearing brown make-up and a grass skirt for the photo shoot. When I look at her through the lens, her ears seem very white. The photographer forbids me to touch his Hasselblad, so when I need to take a picture, I tap his hand and he presses the button for me.

Having seen Chun Mei on to the train back to Shenzhen, Lingling and I return to the exhibition ground. I lie down on my camp bed and tell her how much I appreciate her finding this job for me.

When the gates close for the night we have the whole park to ourselves. We take a boat out and row into the middle of the lake. The water smells of jasmine. She tells me she likes me.

‘No you don’t. As soon as I got up from your sofa the other day you wiped it down with a wet flannel. You treat me worse than a dog.’

‘That’s not true. When Wang Shu and I have a flat of our own, we will make a room up for you and you can stay with us whenever you like. As long as you have a shower before you arrive.’

Lingling is terrified of dirt. She always carries a packet of tissues with her to wipe her hands and face, her restaurant chopsticks, or her seat on the bus.

‘We have been married six months and are still living with Wang Shu’s mother,’ she says. ‘There is no privacy. We still haven’t made love yet.’

I catch her eyes and hold them until at last she looks down. The night sky behind her has turned a deep red. This city never sleeps. I drag the oars through the water and hear the splash stretch to the bottom of the lake.

Women offer me peace and security, but I am afraid to get too close. When I took the Buddhist vows I pledged that I would fend for myself and depend on no one. My feelings for Wang Ping are confused. I try not to think about her too much. But part of me hopes that once my mind has calmed down a little, I will be able to build a life with her.

To fill the silence, I talk about Da Xian’s decision to split with Chun Mei and return to Beijing. The boat glides under the bridge, scattering its reflection across the lake.

‘The quickest way to commit suicide is to marry an artist,’ she laughs.

‘Well, you can come and marry me then when things get too much!’ I smile. Then I pause and say, ‘I will always be a good friend to you, Lingling.’

She tosses her tissue into the air and it floats through the night like a patch of day.

Three days before the exhibition is due to open, the photographer Shen Chao arrives on a bus with twenty people from remote villages of Yunnan. After twelve days on the road everyone is covered with mud and dust. Most of them have never been on a bus before. As they step off, some of them start to vomit. Wang Shu leads them to the exhibition rooms where he has laid out mattresses and sheets he has borrowed from the local hospital.

Now that everyone is here, the place comes alive. We hold a lunch meeting in the park teahouse. The park’s Party secretary gives a welcoming speech. Shen Chao stands up and announces this is the first exhibition of its kind in Guangzhou, a very important event. Wang Shu lists the prestigious guests who will be attending the opening ceremony. Then Shen Chao’s girlfriend Pan Jie briefs us on our sponsors and I talk through the rehearsal schedule for the bonfire dance. Suddenly everything seems to be falling into place.

The next morning I run to the station to fetch Li Tao and Fan Cheng from their train. Northern peasants spill from the exit carrying their quilts, padded coats and dreams. In this hot, bustling city, they appear slow and clumsy. They wipe the sweat from their brows, stand at the crossing and stare blankly at the passing traffic. I climb over some cardboard boxes, squeeze to the front of a long queue, flash my journalist card to an aggressive policeman and buy a platform ticket.

Fan Cheng steps off the train. He has a beard now, more wrinkles and less hair. Li Tao still looks pale but he is smiling. Perhaps he has pushed the Mimi episode to the back of his mind.